Chapter 3: What Was Left in the Apartment
My mother set her coffee on the windowsill without drinking it.
The three of us sat in a hospital room where, two hours earlier, a baby had been born.
The same room that was supposed to be the happiest place I had ever been.
"Missing," my mother said.
"What does that mean?"
"It means no one has heard from him since yesterday afternoon," Reid said.
"His phone goes to voicemail.
His door was unlocked when I got there.
His keys were still on the counter."
"You went to his apartment?"
"That's where I was."
I looked at Theo sleeping against the blanket.
His chest rose and fell.
He had no idea what was happening around him.
"Why didn't you call me?" I asked.
"You were in labor."
"You left me in labor."
Reid opened his mouth.
Closed it.
There was nothing he could say to that.
He knew it.
I knew it.
"What was in the apartment?" my mother asked.
Reid's hands moved to his knees.
"Evidence that June had been living there.
A small bed in the corner of the second room.
Drawings on the refrigerator.
Her name written in crayon on a piece of paper taped to the wall." He paused.
"And a letter addressed to me."
The air in the room changed.
"What kind of letter?"
He reached into his coat pocket and placed a folded envelope on the edge of the bed.
He didn't hand it to me.
He set it down like it was something that needed to be approached carefully.
My name was not on it.
Reid's was.
"I found it on his kitchen table," Reid said.
"Next to June's backpack."
I stared at the envelope.
"How long have you known Miles had a daughter?"
"Eight weeks.
When he called me."
"Eight weeks." I said it slowly.
"You kept that from me for eight weeks."
"He asked me not to say anything.
He said he was handling it."
"And you believed him."
Reid didn't answer.
My mother picked up the envelope before I could.
She turned it over once, then held it out to me.
"It's open."
I took it.
The letter was two pages, handwritten.
Miles's handwriting — cramped and slanted, the way it had always been.
I had seen it on birthday cards.
On notes tucked into Christmas gifts.
I knew it as well as I knew my own.
I read the first paragraph.
Then I stopped.
"What does it say?" my mother asked.
I looked at Reid.
"You read this already."
"Yes."
"Then you know what's in it."
"Yes."
"And you still walked in here and let me believe the worst possible thing about you for twenty minutes."
His voice was very quiet.
"I needed you to hear it from the letter.
Not from me.
You wouldn't have believed me."
I looked back down at the page.
Miles had written: *By the time you read this, I'll either be somewhere safe or somewhere I can't come back from.
I don't know which yet.
What I do know is that June cannot go where I'm going.
She needs someone who will keep her.
Reid — you're the only person I trust.
You look enough like me that she won't be frightened.
Please don't let her end up with strangers.*
My hands were not steady.
"Where is he?" I asked.
"What kind of trouble is he in?"
Reid leaned forward.
His elbows went to his knees.
He looked exhausted in a way that had nothing to do with sleep.
"Three months ago, Miles borrowed money from someone he shouldn't have.
A significant amount.
He thought he could pay it back before it became a problem."
"How much?"
Reid's jaw moved.
"Enough that when he couldn't pay, they stopped asking politely."
The word *they* landed in the room like a stone dropped into still water.
"Who are they?" my mother said.
"I don't know all of it yet.
What I know is that Miles was scared enough to write that letter, leave his keys on the counter, and disappear before dawn."
Outside the door, I heard June's voice — small and uncertain — asking the nurse something I couldn't make out.
I looked at the letter again.
At the last line on the second page.
*Her full name is June Elise Shaw.
She is four years old.
She has never done anything wrong.
Please remember that.*
Shaw.
Miles had given his daughter our family name.
The name Theo had been born into six hours ago.
I folded the letter carefully and held it against my chest.
"Reid."
"Yes."
"Go get her."
He looked at me.
"Go get June," I said.
"She shouldn't be sitting in a hallway alone."
He stood slowly.
He crossed the room.
At the door he stopped with his hand on the frame, his back to me.
"Maren—"
"We'll talk about everything else later," I said.
"Go get her."
He went.
My mother sat down on the edge of the bed beside me.
She didn't say anything.
She just put her hand over mine.
Theo made a small sound in his sleep.
A minute later, the door opened again.
Reid came back in carrying June, her face still tucked against his shoulder.
He sat down carefully in the chair by the window — his chair, the one he had surrendered earlier — and June curled into his lap like she had done it a hundred times.
Maybe she had.
She looked at me over Reid's arm.
Her eyes were red from crying.
Her brown hair was still tangled against one cheek.
"Are you the mama?" she asked.
My throat closed.
"Yes," I said.
"I am."
She considered this for a long moment.
Then she looked at the bundle in my arms.
"Is that the baby?"
"His name is Theo."
June was quiet.
Then, very softly: "Is he going to be my brother?"
Nobody answered.
Nobody had an answer yet.
But Reid's eyes met mine across the room, and something passed between us that was not forgiveness — not yet — but was something older and more complicated than anger.
I looked down at Theo.
Then back at June.
"Get some sleep," I told her.
"We'll figure the rest out in the morning."
She nodded once.
Closed her eyes.
Her small hand found the collar of Reid's jacket and held on.
May you like
I watched her breathing slow.
And somewhere across the city, Miles Shaw was either running or already gone — and no one in that room yet knew which.
